Family Secrets

by Judith Henry Wall

  Also by Judith Henry Wall

  The Surrogate

  A Good Man

  The Girlfriends Club

  My Mother’s Daughter

  If Love Were All

  Death Eligible

  Mother Love

  Blood Sisters

  Handsome Women

  Love and Duty

  A Chain of Gold

  Simon & Schuster Paperbacks

  Rockefeller Center

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2007 by Judith Henry Wall, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Simon & Schuster Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Designed by Karolina Harris

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Wall, Judith Henry.

  Family secrets : a novel / Judith Henry Wall.—1st Simon & Schuster trade pbk. ed.

  p. cm.

  1. Sisters—Fiction. 2. Grandmothers—Fiction. 3. Family secrets—Fiction. I. Title

  PS3573.A42556F36 2007

  813’.54—dc22 2007007915

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4165-3985-8

  ISBN 10: 1-4165-3985-9

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  With profound gratitude to

  Laura Zeller

  Dr. Jim Wall

  Dr. Robert Rankin

  Dr. Kenneth Stokes

  Acknowledgments

  IAM grateful to Amanda Murray, my talented and perceptive editor, and Philippa Brophy, my agent and friend of many years.

  And I am indebted to Daranna Bradley, JoAnna Wall, and Joan Atterbury for their help and encouragement.

  Eagles Nest, Colorado

  AS was her custom, Myrna had deliberately kept her visitor waiting for half an hour—a practice that established hierarchy. And the visitor would have had plenty of time to admire and be intimidated by her office with its sleek décor and the view from a spacious deck that jutted out over a veritable abyss and took one’s breath away.

  The man was on the deck when she entered the room, his hands on the railing, the wind lifting his longish hair as he took in the breathtaking view of Colorado’s Elkhead Mountains. She watched him for a time, imagining the firm, youthful body beneath the well-tailored sport coat, and found herself regretting the vast difference in their ages. Not that she would have tried to seduce him, but a little sexual tension was to a business meeting what seasoning was to food; it made the experience more pleasant.

  Of course, there had been a time in her life when a pleasant business encounter sometimes led to other things. It had been years, however, since she’d had a man in her arms and life, and probably she never would again. She’d always assumed that a time would arrive when she stopped having sexual thoughts, but they still came unbidden. In the night, they came. Or sometimes in the presence of an appealing man.

  She cleared away such thoughts with a shake of her head and crossed the room to the open French doors. “Mr. Farris?”

  He turned and smiled. His teeth were white and perfect. “You have the most incredible home I have ever seen,” he said.

  She accepted his compliment with a nod, then headed toward her desk with Mr. Farris following. She was still tall and erect and carried herself in a manner that belied her age, but she knew that he saw her as a person made all but genderless by advancing years.

  Even if he were willing, she had too much pride.

  Once they both were seated on their respective sides of her large, highly polished, and absolutely bare desk, he handed her a thick manila folder.

  She placed it in front of her and folded her hands on top of it. “Tell me what’s inside.”

  “Basically I discovered nothing about any family member that would cause insurmountable problems in your son’s upcoming gubernatorial campaign,” he said with his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, his body leaning slightly forward. “Other than Randall’s DUIs, your children and their spouses and your grandchildren have been extremely circumspect in conducting their personal lives.”

  He waited for her to comment. When she remained silent, he said, “Your son has already acknowledged his DUIs in previous campaigns, and they seem to have been written off by voters as youthful indiscretions. His long-standing second marriage to the daughter of a noted architect is certainly in his favor. And Randall has an impressive military record, has been a reasonably effective congressman during his three terms, and is popular with the media.”

  Again he paused. When she didn’t comment, he drew in his breath and slowly let it out.

  She suppressed the smile that was playing with her lips. He was either feeling intimidation or frustration. Or both. Poor baby.

  “As for your own background,” he said with a bit of a stammer, “it is a bit more problematic. While it’s not unheard of for birth records to be destroyed in courthouse fires and for an individual to apply for and receive a new birth certificate based on affidavits from relatives, baptismal and school records, and the like, the only documentation provided when you applied for a new birth certificate was an affidavit signed by two ‘cousins’ who have no paper trail at all, which could make one wonder if these two individuals ever existed.”

  He squared his shoulders as though expecting her to refute his statement. When she did not, he continued, “And this most likely fraudulent birth certificate is the only sort of documentation I was able to find on you until your second marriage. In fact, the first two decades of your life are devoid of any verifiable information. This absence of a paper trail is unusual at best, and if I were the suspicious sort, I would wonder if you hadn’t created a new identity for yourself in young adulthood. According to the brief bio used by your company, you came from a mining family and were raised in Montana, but it would help if I knew something about your parents and your childhood.”

  “That was a very difficult time in my life,” she said, “and I prefer not to make it public.”

  He regarded her, his head tilted to one side, as though he was trying to decide how insistent he should be. “Ordinarily,” he said, “the media might not take much interest in the widowed mother of a potential candidate for high office. Since you are not the usual candidate’s mother, however, there will likely be some snooping. Actually I predict there will be a great deal of snooping.”

  “It’s your job to see that such ‘snooping’ goes no place,” she said.

  “Yes, of course.” He leaned forward and placed his hands on the desk. “As a diversionary tactic, I suggest we clandestinely hire someone to write an ‘unauthorized’ biography on your life that will put forth a version of your difficult childhood and young adulthood that you can live with. The book will highlight your courage in overcoming adversity, your dedication to your family, your contributions to the mining industry, your generous support of numerous worthy philanthropies, and your incredible success in building one of the nation’s largest family-owned companies from the ground up. However, the biography should also include a few salacious and apparently embarrassing details that in reality only serve to make you more interesting and colorful and make the book more believable but will cause no real damage to you or your family’s reputation. You will make a public show of trying—unsuccessfully, of course—to
stop publication of the book, which guarantees that it will be widely read and be used as a seemingly valid source of information for journalists.”

  She wanted to tell him no. Up to this point, she had led an exceedingly private life. But ironically the last decades of her life were a lead-up to one very public moment that would be played out in front of the Capitol in Washington, D.C. The governor’s chair was but a stepping-stone to the presidency.

  “The book is an intriguing idea,” she said. “I will read your report and get back to you.”

  One

  VANESSA tried to look interested while her sister Ellie fretted about the lack of eligible men in her life and expressed her irritation over the fading of the “permanent” eyeliner for which she had paid five hundred dollars and while her other sister, Georgiana, tried to decide if she should have her hair straightened and whether she should “invest” in an iPod.

  Vanessa glanced in their mother’s direction, ready to roll her eyes as an editorial comment on her sisters’ lack of maturity, but Penelope was absently toying with the stem of her wineglass, her mind seemingly elsewhere.

  Vanessa reached for her own glass and took a sip of the pricey Pinot Noir that Ellie had insisted on ordering. Ellie also had insisted that they eat at this trendy French restaurant with its hot new chef. As an associate editor at the fashion magazine Stiletto, Ellie considered herself an authority on anything remotely connected to style and the good life. And it was their mother’s sixtieth birthday, she had pointed out. Of course, Ellie was single, as was Georgiana, who made a ridiculous amount of money as a hand and foot model. They had no one to take care of but themselves; whereas Vanessa had two daughters in need of orthodontia, a husband who after fourteen years of marriage was still trying to find himself, and a suburban home that they couldn’t afford to maintain.

  As though sensing her older sister’s disinterest, Ellie wound down her tales of woe with the assertion that what this city needed was a major incursion of heterosexual men, then lifted her glass. “Here’s to our glamorous mother on her very special birthday,” she said.

  Vanessa studied their mother’s face and its somewhat detached smile. Glamorous. Yes, she was that. Maybe even a bit too glamorous considering she had been widowed for less than a year. Penelope Wentworth was trim, unlined, elegantly attired, and could probably pass for her daughters’ older sister.

  People often told Vanessa that she looked like her mother. And while she was tall and had her mother’s thick, dark hair, she had not inherited Penelope’s brown eyes, high cheekbones, or her olive complexion. Like her sisters, Vanessa had their father’s fair skin and blue eyes. Ellie and Georgiana also had their father’s thick, reddish blond hair, but Ellie’s hair was sleek and straight, while Georgiana’s hair was a mass of unruly curls. Vanessa had always thought that her sisters’ hair reflected their personalities. Ellie was a control freak, and Georgiana was scatterbrained. Ellie’s outfit du jour was always meticulously planned. Georgiana rolled out of bed and started grabbing but somehow managed a charmingly bohemian look.

  They had not celebrated their mother’s fifty-ninth birthday. A year ago their father had been close to death. A horrible time. The worst of Vanessa’s life. Thinking about it brought the all too familiar ache to her chest. God, how she missed him. Her father had been her hero. The dearest man she’d ever known. The man against whom she compared all others. Her husband, Scott, had never come close to measuring up. Not that she didn’t love him; she just wished he was more ambitious. And more thoughtful. But maybe Scott felt the same way about her.

  After dinner they sauntered along, heading for the apartment on Park Avenue where their mother now lived alone and that the sisters still referred to as “home.” They had gathered there before dinner and were returning for birthday cake, champagne, and the opening of gifts. It was a wonderful summer evening with the sidewalk full of Friday-night strollers on their way to and from restaurants or simply enjoying the sights and sounds of this Upper East Side neighborhood.

  After more than a decade of living in northern New Jersey and navigating her life from behind the wheel of an SUV, Vanessa still thought of herself as a New Yorker and probably always would. And while she sometimes complained because her mother—and her sisters, too—seldom came to visit her and her family in New Jersey, they did give her an excuse to come into the city.

  The eighth-floor apartment was spacious by New York standards and filled with a diverse mix of furniture, artwork, and clutter that their parents had collected over the years or was left over from the days when the apartment had been the home of Penelope’s parents. The sisters cleared magazines, books, and a potted plant from the coffee table. Georgiana placed six candles—one for each decade of their mother’s life—in the cake. Ellie uncorked a bottle of champagne, and Vanessa placed a stack of presents in front of Penelope.

  They sang “Happy Birthday” and watched their mother blow out the candles, then exchanged knowing glances as she opened the several smaller presents—perfume, bath oil, the latest book by one of her favorite authors—that were but a prelude to their very special gift for her very special birthday. They had hired an artist to paint a portrait of their parents based on one of the many photographs taken at their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. Vanessa had tears in her eyes as she watched her mother remove the wrapping. Her sisters’ eyes were also glistening. They had conferred long and hard over the gift, debating which photograph to use, locating just the right artist to paint a portrait of their beloved parents, selecting the perfect frame. The results were stunning. Penelope and Matthew Wentworth looked wonderfully happy and very much in love. Vanessa had grown up assuming that she, too, would one day marry a fine-looking, considerate, witty man like her father and have the same sort of loving, respectful marriage her parents had had.

  Not that she and Scott had a bad marriage. It was just that they didn’t adore one another the way her parents had. Scott never looked at her the way her father was looking at her mother in that anniversary picture.

  Vanessa held her breath while Mother pulled away the last of the wrappings and regarded the painting. “Oh, my,” she said softly, her fingertips touching the face of their father. “What a dear, beautiful man he was.”

  “You were such a handsome couple,” Vanessa noted as she dug in her purse for a tissue. “Everyone said so. And so devoted. And I never once heard you guys say a cross word to one another.”

  “I was always so proud of my great-looking parents,” Ellie chimed in.

  Penelope dabbed at her eyes, then rose from the sofa to give each of them a hug. “Your father was a wonderful man,” she said, “and, oh, how he did love his darling daughters. You girls were the light of his life.”

  When she sat down again, it was not on the sofa but in the wing chair, which Vanessa had always thought of as her mother’s throne. Daddy had preferred the comfort of the well-worn easy chair and ottoman. Vanessa closed her eyes, remembering evenings in this room. She and her sisters sprawled here and there doing their homework. Their parents in their places with reading glasses parked on their noses. Their parents were both writers. Their father worked for a major news service, and their mother wrote magazine articles. Both had deadlines to meet. They proofread each other’s work. Even if the television was on, they were reading or editing or proofing.

  “We thought the portrait would look fabulous over the mantel,” Ellie said, her voice almost childlike in her delight and pride. The portrait had been Ellie’s idea. Vanessa and Georgiana had thought a special piece of jewelry would be appropriate, but they had immediately acquiesced when Ellie told them about her idea.

  When Penelope did not respond to her suggestion about where to hang the picture, Ellie added, “That picture has faded over the years.”

  Vanessa glanced up at the courtly ballroom scene. Yes, the picture had definitely faded. As had the wallpaper, drapes, and upholstery. The room was overflowing with furniture, bric-a-brac, framed photographs, stacks o
f newspapers and books and magazines. Through an arched opening was the dining room—with its scarred table and cluttered china cabinet—where the family used to gather for dinner. Lively gatherings. Good times that were gone forever.

  Vanessa waited with her sisters for their mother to say yes, that over the mantel would be a perfect place for the portrait. Had Mother not heard Ellie? Vanessa exchanged worried glances with her sisters.

  When Penelope finally spoke, her words had nothing to do with the wonderful birthday present that now lay seemingly forgotten on the coffee table. “I’ve been going through your father’s things,” she said.

  They watched as their mother rose, went to the handsome mahogany secretary that had once been their grandmother’s, and returned with a yellowing envelope, which she handed to Vanessa. “I found this in a Bible that belonged to your daddy’s Miss Vera.”

  The envelope was addressed to Miss Vera Wentworth, the spinster lady who had raised their orphaned father. There was no return address, but the postmark indicated that the letter was mailed in Deer Lodge, Montana, almost sixty-one years ago.

  Vanessa pulled out a single sheet of lined notebook paper and read the brief, pencil-written message:

  Dear Aunt Vera,

  Thank you for taking in my baby. Please tell him only that his mother died when he was born and that you were never told her name or anything about her.

  God’s blessing on you both.

  Sincerely,

  Hattie

  A shiver went up and down Vanessa’s spine. Her father’s mother had given him away. How strange to learn something so elemental about her father’s life that he himself had never known. For his entire life he believed himself to have been orphaned at birth. He’d been raised on a farm outside a small town in West Virginia by an elderly woman who died when Ellie was just a baby and Georgiana had not yet been born.

  Vanessa had clear memories of the gaunt old woman with frizzy gray hair, spectacles resting on her nose, her face a road map of lines and creases. She remembered Sunday dinners at the round table in the farmhouse’s austere kitchen listening while Vera and Daddy discussed crops and pigs and the weather and who’d died since he’d last visited the rural community. She always called him by both his first and middle names—Matthew Wade. He called her Miss Vera. She had raised Matthew Wade to believe that his father had died in a mining accident before he was born and his unmarried mother had died giving him birth and that Vera had been asked to care for the baby until a permanent home could be found for him. But after only a few weeks, she realized that God expected her to raise him and began legal proceedings to adopt him.